


Bâhayê

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [26]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Female Friendship, Other, Post-Battle of Azanulbizar, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-07 04:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8782723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Visiting an old friend.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cursive in this work denotes Sindarin.  
> Bold denotes Khuzdul.

She snuck into the settlement. Her hair covered the points of her ears, and by stooping, she managed to disguise her height. Her natural agility helped her avoid notice on her way through the small streets until she reached her goal.

“Halt! Who’s there?” the guard on duty shouted, stopping her a few feet from the door.

“An old friend of Princess Frís to visit. You can announce me as **magallabûna**. Your Lady will know me.” She kept her voice quiet, but with a core of steel that brooked no disobedience from the guard.

A few minutes later, a young Dwarf came to the door. He whispered something in the guard’s ear, that the guest pretended not to hear. Then he waved for her, casting a curt “Follow me.” over his shoulder. She did, keeping her grey cloak around her, but folded the hood down as she walked silently behind the young dwarf. The lad abandoned her at a doorway after knocking thrice.

“Enter.” The voice that came from the chamber behind the door sounded frail.

Opening the door, she slipped easily through the gap, unclasping her cloak as she went. Tossing the garment carelessly onto a chair, she fell to her knees in front of the dwarrowdam seated by the fire.

“Frís.”

Frís reached her hand out, cupping her guest’s face gently. “Old friend. It is good to see you, Rhonith.”

“Lothig, I am so sorry for your loss, **bâhayê[1].** ” Rhonith wrapped her hands around Frís’s cold fingers.

“My Frerin…my little boy, my son! He is gone, burned like so many. **Razdithê[2]** … He died in Thorin’s arms. And now Thraín has gone too.” Tears began rolling down Frís’ cheeks. Rhonith rose fluidly, wrapping her arms around the weeping mother. Drawing a blanket around the shuddering form, she pulled Frís’ unresisting form onto her lap, letting her weep into her chest. “ **Kundithê**[3]… my Thorin has grown up so fast. Faster than he should, and he is so lost. Thraín… Thraín did not have time to teach him all he needed to know. His crown weighs heavily, so heavily on my little boy.” Rhonith simply rocked her gently from side to side, even as her heart broke for her friend. The two dams sat long into the night. No one disturbed them and the fire slowly turned to embers.

“You should have sent for me, _bâhayê_.” Rhonith murmured into the dark hair when Frís was finally asleep. She idly wondered where Frís’ daughter had gone off to, knowing that the new King-in-Exile was in his forge, learning the old art of black-smithing. “I would have come sooner.”

When the light fingers of pre-dawn began making their way across the clouds, Frís woke from her restless sleep, still wrapped in the slender arms of her friend, who had remained on the small sofa all night.

“ **Akhminruki astî.**[4]” The princess mumbled.

“ **Ya harmu, Frís.**[5]” Bending her neck slightly, Rhonith pressed her forehead against Frís’ in an ancient Dwarven act of comfort. The two dams breathed softly for a minute, before Frís untangled herself and got up from the couch. Taking up the poker, Rhonith stirred the embers, adding new logs to the fire.

“You are not staying, I suppose? I doubt it would be wise.” Frís said, almost wistfully, but the words held an undercurrent of worry.

“It was not my plan to remain long, but if you wish it I will stay a while,” Rhonith said. “Do you want to explain my presence to your children?” Rhonith did not particularly care how many Dwarrow knew of her existence, but those among her mother’s people she called friends usually felt differently. The peredhel Dwarf was a secret from most of her mother-kin, as most Dwarrow did not feel too fondly about elves.

“Dís would love to meet you properly, but Thorin… Thorin is filled with rage. He watched Thranduil turn away from our plight at Erebor, and Thrór… my husband never dared explain to our son what had truly happened, for fear he would speak against his grandfather and be punished for it. Thraín…” she shot Rhonith a desperate glance. “Is there any chance my husband yet lives? He was last seen entering the Greenwood.”

Rhonith stared into the flames, unsure, but spoke decisively. “Unlikely. Greenwood is not the place you remember, Frís. Even before Smaug, darkness was falling over the forest. Those who live there have begun  calling it Mirkwood now. None of our patrols have found trace of Thraín… I am sorry, but no. We have searched, but the trail is dead. I wish I could give you hope, but your husband will not return. For better or worse, your son is the King now, and he will remain so until he dies.” Frís’ face contracted in a pained grimace, but the dwarrowdam pulled herself together, donning the dignity of the Queen she would never become.

“So be it. My son will be the greatest King of the Longbeards I can make him.”

“You will manage. There is strength in your line, and from the stories, Thorin has managed to earn the loyalty and love of his people already. Take heart, my friend. Your son is strong. His hardships will be many, but I have faith that he will make you proud.” Rhonith rose, clasping the Princess’ shoulder. Frís nodded.

“Thank you, my friend.” She smiled, tremulously, but a smile nonetheless. “Will you at least stay for breakfast?”

“I will. I have a gift for you, too. For once, I dared bring it myself, I wanted to see the settlement here.” Rhonith nodded, following her shorter friend.

The two friends made their way to the kitchen. The modest sized building, a far cry from the splendour of Erebor’s Royal Palace, housed the three Royal Durins, as well as Thorin’s guard, Dwalin, and his brother, Balin, the sons of Fundin. This morning, all was quiet. Thorin and Dwalin were off hunting, and Balin had already finished breakfast and retreated to his office. Dís was still asleep. When they reached the kitchen, Frís pulled out a loaf of dark bread, slicing it and toasting it over the fire. Rhonith reached into her pack, drawing several smaller sacks as well as a couple of earthenware pots decorated with a motif of geometric leaves. From the bottom of her saddlebag, she drew a small locket, simple silver, but engraved with an intricate pattern of vines and inscribed with Khuzdul runes of remembrance. Silently, she handed the locket to Frís, who opened the small doors to see the happy face of her golden son stare up at her from it. Drawn in silverpoint on vellum and shaded with a light yellow pigment, the picture of a young golden-haired Dwarf seemed almost alive. Next to the image of her son sat a picture of a dark-haired dwarf with an eye-patch. Thraín smiled gently from the vellum, looking as peaceful as he had only been in Erebor. Frís closed the locket, clasping the chain around her neck. No words were spoken between them, but they were not needed. The bread was served on crude – for a Dwarf – clay plates, and Rhonith opened one of the small pots she had brought. The scent of citrus spread in the small kitchen as she smeared her slice with the spicy orange marmalade.

“A gift, **bâhayê**. Oranges were always your favourite, and the orchards have born plenty fruit in Lothlórien this year,” Rhonith smiled. “I have brought you blackberry jam as well, and some of our finest spices. The larger bag contains the tea you are so fond of, and I have brought a smaller bag of salt as well. I did not know what would be obtainable here, but…I was in Gondor when I heard of Thraín's disappearance. I was tempted to bring you the finest Dol Amroth silks, but they would hardly be suitable for the cool climate of Ered Luin…” she paused, watching Frís spread the contents of the bags over the table.

“A kingly gift, _mellon-nîn_ ,” the Elvish words sat oddly on her tongue compared to the rougher syllables of Khuzdul, but saying it always made her friend smile, so Frís had learned a few phrases. Rhonith waved off her thanks, pleased that her gift had been accepted.

“No more than you deserve, Frís.” Rhonith smiled, eating her breakfast. “I only wish I could do more for you here. Have you considered trade with the Hobbits for food? The Shire is rich in land and bountiful harvests… but not in metalworkers. If you offered them the use of a blacksmith or two for mending tools and the like, you could probably strike a favourable bargain.”

“I will mention it to Thorin, and see if Gróin thinks he can come up with suitable trade goods.” The Princess got up, moving slowly around the kitchen to store the different foodstuffs Rhonith had brought. The small pouch of cardamom pods made her eyes water with the strength of memory. Thraín’s favourite spice buns were made with cardamom and he had always had a sweet tooth.

“Do you want me to stay a little longer? I was heading to the Grey Havens, but my errand there can wait.” Rhonith asked, smiling sadly at her friend.

“It is alright. I’m sure you have places to go, dear, and it is hardly safe for you here. Thank you for coming. As always, you are my beloved friend.”

“Will you send me word if I can do anything to aid you? Atheg and Legolas would be grateful for words too, though they know you cannot be seen sending letters to Mirkwood Elves,” Rhonith’s face pulled into a grimace of sadness. “I wish I could be of more aid to you… you are certain Thorin would not accept any aid we might render?”

“You have done so much for us already. I know the offers of sanctuary and aid we received from the Elves were your doing. Thrór should not have been so dismissive,” Frís winced, but Rhonith waved off her apology. “My son… he has a harsh temper. I am afraid my softer words have done little to drown out his grandfather’s anger and hatred…I hope one day he will see what you have done for us, for me. Our people… the only times they speak of Elves it is curses that flow from their lips. I could not bear for you to be attacked. You should not come here in person again, mellon. Send me news of your travels, **nun’el**[6], and be safe.”

“It was my pleasure. If ever I can be of service to you and yours… send word. Please.” Frís nodded once. The sound of their front door opening startled both dams.

“Amad, we’re back from the forest. We’ve brought meat and a new bear fur to make you a rug.” Thorin’s voice echoed through the hall. Frís shot a glance at Rhonith, who nodded silently, getting to her feet and slipping out of the door. When she made it back to Frís’ room, she picked up her cloak, slipping unseen from the window.

 

Inside the kitchen, Frís was still clutching the pouch of cardamom pods when her son and Dwalin made their way through the door.

“What have you got there, Amad? The guard said we had a guest last night, who hadn’t left yet. You should have sent for us if it was someone important.” Thorin said, reaching for the small linen pouch. “Cardamom? Amad, who was here?”

“ **Bâhayê gamil**[7], Thorin. Someone I have known since I was a pebble. She brought me a few gifts,” Frís gestured to the small pouch and the still open bag of tea. “No one you know, son. She is a shy wanderer, and usually brings gifts from her travels. She could not stay to meet you, I’m sorry.” Thorin knew his mother well enough to know that further questions would not be answered and simply handed over the spice. He did not remark on the new silver chain he could see above her collar, and it would take him almost 140 years to find out who had visited his amad, leaving her eyes reddened with tears, but her shoulders less burdened than he had seen them in the years since coming home with news of Frerin’s death. It wasn’t until Frís’ own passing into the Halls of Waiting that her children would find the mourner’s locket with the pictures of her son and her husband, drawn in a peculiarly Elvish style.

 

###### notes:

 

[1] My friend

[2] My little sun

[3] My little wolf

[4] Thank you wholeheartedly

[5] You’re welcome

[6] Sister of all sisters

[7] My old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA 2847


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another delivery.

“Amad’s received another package from one of the merchant caravans,” Dís said quietly. Thorin kept hammering the metal before him, shaping a small cooking pot. “There was a letter, like always, but she burned it before I could see. She is making honey-cakes for dessert. The boys are ecstatic.”

“She never tells us who they are from, Dís. If we hadn’t caught her weeping over that pot of jam thirty years ago, we wouldn’t even have known that she was receiving these packages.”

“It’s suspicious.” Dís continued, stubborn to the end. “Why does she hide this benefactor?”

“Because of me,” he sighed, “I think.” He put down the hammer, turning to look at his sister. Dís had an annoyed expression on her face and Thorin couldn’t help but grin. As much as he missed Frerin, he and Dís had always been so similar and shared a special bond because of it. Their connection had only strengthened over their long years of hardships and toil. “Sometimes I catch her looking wistfully at the mark on those jam pots, as though she longs to see the giver, and then she looks at me and her face smoothens into calmness once more. It has been more than eight decades since the first collection appeared in our kitchen, and I’m afraid I interrupted their reunion and made Amad’s guest flee. The guards said she – at least she named herself as female – appeared in the late evening and only called herself **Magallabûna**[1]. She has not returned.”

“You think Amad told her not to come back because you would not approve?” Dís was thoughtful for a minute, then gasped. “Do you think this person was Amad’s… lover?” she whispered, horrified. Thorin chuckled, but Dís’s fears did not abate.

“If I know nothing else, **zanshith**[2],” but his use of her old nickname did not calm her either. Dís paced the forge anxiously. “I know that Amad loves Adad more than anyone else in the whole world. He is her One, you know that. This **Magallabûna** is important to her, yes, but not in the way of a lover. She told me it was someone she had known since she was a pebble, an old friend, nothing more.”  Thorin wrapped his arm around Dís’s tense shoulders, feeling his little sister relax. He knew that she did not share his steadfast belief that Thraín was alive, believing him long-dead like Frís, but she always humoured him when he spoke of their absent Adad in the present tense.

“Thank you, nadad. Let’s go see if Dwalin left us any honey-cakes, eh?” She poked his side.

“Dwalin is back!?” Thorin gaped. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” Dís gave him a sheepish look, while Thorin scrambled to clean up his work and himself. Dwalin had been gone for many moons as a caravan guard and he had been sorely missed.

“I was on my way to do that when I spotted Amad’s present!” she defended herself hotly. Thorin glared at her. “Dwalin’s caravan brought it but he didn’t know anything about the sender. He just said that Gróin was well paid for delivery and that it came from the innkeeper in Bree as an intermediary.” Thorin could only sigh. Since Víli’s death, Dís had grown even more protective of their little family, and while he understood her fears, even exceeded them in some areas, Thorin knew that their Amad’s benefactor was no threat. He still wanted to meet the person, get answers to the questions Frís would never answer, but he was content to leave it alone until Frís volunteered the information. Another reason was the small jar of blackberry preserves that usually had a T rune stamped on it for him. Thorin would forgive many things for that preserve and he hoarded it carefully, making the jar last as long as possible. He knew that Dís was equally fond of the small cinnamon sticks destined for her, even if his headstrong sister would never admit it. They usually never spoke of the parcels Frís received, but the contents were appreciated nonetheless. He had wondered how Magallabûna could afford to send them such riches in spices so regularly, but it was a concern he never voiced to his Amad after the first package had arrived. The tongue-lashing he had received for suggestion that whoever it was was trying to curry favour with him and that they’d end up paying for the gifts in more than gold had left him with an even healthier respect for Frís’s temper and a fervent oath that he would never again disparage her friend. Thorin still cringed at the thought. He had been full of rage after the loss of Frerin, but it was no excuse and Frís had made him feel like a recalcitrant dwarfling with only a few words.

“Let it go, sister. The letters make Amad smile more often than not, and we all enjoy the treats that are sent.” He smiled as Dís huffed out a breath, chuckling ruefully at him. She hugged him once, before dragging him back towards their house.

“Let’s see if your bear and my two little terrors have left us any of those treats then, eh, brother?”

Laughing, the two Durins walked arm in arm through the streets.

Years later, at the finely carved dinner table of a giant skin-changer, Thorin finally got the answer to the question of Magallabûna’s identity, but it was not until Laketown that he learned how Frís had met her generous friend.

 

###### notes:

[1] She who continues to speak / storyteller

[2] Little bird


End file.
